Love, Death and Robots. Volumes 2 & 3

Out on the sand Beck brought the transport down and as the four climbed out, he pulled a large case from the back of the transport. He was sweating, and not just because of the heat.

“Here,” he said, and opened the case.

The man reached inside and took out a small shiny pistol, snub-nosed and deadly looking.

“The Merchant will meet at the pre-arranged place, if he manages to obtain the information he seeks,” he said. He did not know where that was, nor what the information was. The Merchant had not taken him that far into his trust. It surprised him that he had been allowed knowledge of this; hired killers here on Vatch.

The man nodded as he inspected the pistol, smiled sadly, then pointed the pistol at Beck.

“Sorry,” he said.

Beck tried to say something just as he became aware of the arm coming round his face from the man who had moved behind him. A grip like iron closed around his head, locked, wrenched and twisted. Beck hit the sand with his head at an angle it had never achieved in life. He made some choking sounds, shivered a little, died.

* * *

Snow halted as two proctors came in through the lock. They looked past him to the corpse on the floor. The eldest of the two, grey-bearded and running to fat, but with weapons that looked well-used and well looked after, spoke to him.

“You are Snow,” he said.

“Yes,” Snow replied. This man was not Andronache.

“A challenge?”

“Yes.”

The man nodded, looked calculatingly at the two Andronache at the bar, then turned back to the moisture lock. It was not his job to pick up the corpses. There was an organisation for that. The girl would be in a condensation jar within the hour.

“The Androche would speak with you. Come with me.” To his companion he said, “Deal with it. Her two friends look like they ought to spend a little time in detention.”

Snow followed the man outside.

“Why does she want to see me?” he asked as they strode down the scaffolded street.

“I didn’t ask.”

Any conversation ended there.

The Androche, like all in her position, had apartments up in the station she owned. The proctor led Snow to a caged spiral stair and unlocked the gate.

“She is above,” was all he said.

As Snow climbed the stair the gate clanged shut behind him.

The stairway ended at a moisture-lock hatch next to which depended a monitor and screen unit. Snow pressed the call button and waited. After a few moments a woman with cropped grey hair and a face that was all hard angles looked out at him.

“Yes?”

“You sent for me,” said Snow.

The woman nodded and the lock on the hatch clunked open. He spun the handle and it rose on its hinge to allow him access. He climbed into a short metal-walled corridor that ended at a single panel door of imported wood. It looked like oak to Snow; very expensive. He pushed the door open and entered.

The room was filled with a fortune in antiques; a huge dining table surrounded by gate leg chairs. Plush eighteenth-century furniture, oil paintings on the walls, hand woven rugs on the floor.

“Don’t be too impressed. They’re all copies.”

The Androche approached from a drinks cabinet. She carried two glasses half filled with an amber drink. Snow studied her; she was an attractive woman. He estimated her age as somewhere between thirty-five and a hundred and ninety. Three centuries earlier the second figure would have been forty-five, but rejuvenation treatments had come a long way. She wore a simple toga-type dress over an athletic figure. At her hip she carried an antique – or replica – revolver.

“You know my name,” said Snow meaningfully as he accepted the drink.

“I am Aleen,” she replied to his unspoken question.

Snow hardly heard her. He was relishing his first sip.

“My God, whisky,” he said, eventually.

“Yes,” said Aleen, taking a sip from her drink then gesturing to a nearby sofa. They moved there and sat facing each other.

“Well, I’m here. What do you want?”

“Why is there a reward of twenty-five thousand shillings for your testicles.”

“Best ask the Merchant Baris that question, but I see it was rhetorical. You already know the answer.”

Aleen nodded and Snow leant towards her.

“I would be glad to know the answer,” he said.

Aleen smiled, Snow leant back.

“There is a price,” he said.

“Isn’t there always? ... There is a man. He is the chief proctor here. His name is David Songrel.”

“You want me to kill him.”

“Of course. Isn’t that what you are best at?”

Snow kept silent.

Aleen lay back against the edge of the sofa then and regarded him over her drink. “That is not all I want from you.”